


That's All We Have Left

by charliescastiel



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst with no happy ending, BUT ITS TOO LATE, Introspection, Lucius remains the best, M/M, This is really sad, ed realises he loves oswald, idk why i wrote this, no but like really sad guys, some serious ooc writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-27 09:10:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18192608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charliescastiel/pseuds/charliescastiel
Summary: Oswald died in the Haven bombing, this is what happens when Ed finds out.Based on @spicy_watsons tweet "do you ever think about the fact that ed could have killed oswald when he blew up haven and then he would just never hear from oswald ever again and not know why until maybe he finds out what happened and learns he did it I-"





	That's All We Have Left

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is as messy as Ed's thought processes and writing it destroyed the little serotonin I had left. I made myself cry three times writing this. I'm sorry in advance. I don't think this exactly fits the prompt but this is what I ended up with.
> 
> Shout out to Lori for beta'ing this.
> 
> Follow me on twitter @kristnkringle

Ed wakes up with a start on the floor. His back aches, it’s cold, he's only wearing one shoe. He grabs the couch and shifts to sit up, both his arms ache and his chest is bruised. The sun shines through the open blinds, he has no memory of last night. His glasses dig painfully into his nose and he presses his fingers into his eyes, headache blooming in the back of his skull. 

Noticing a suitcase on the couch, he pulls himself up, taps it and cautiously opens the lid. It’s empty. He isn’t sure if what he feels is relief or dread, there’s no answers here. He stands and grabs his recorder. 

“Apparently, I’ve been on a trip or I’m going on one.” He gestures wildly, catches something written on his hand. A clue?

 

_ in a t #1215 knows  _

 

“Innate? Ingrate? Inflate? Inmate. Inmate number 1215 knows.” He pauses. “Knows what?” 

The frustration of not knowing overwhelms him. “Okay. Okay, think. Prison records. Where do I get prison records. Right.” The GCPD. 

He switches on the police radio, like he does every time he wakes from a blackout. It’s the only radio station in Gotham still broadcasts, and their coverage is patchy at that. Information is difficult to obtain in No Man's Land. 

“-presumed dead.” His stomach drops. He knows in his bones something is wrong. He’s missed most of the broadcast and he fiddles with the buttons in the radio as if he’s going to magically discover a rewind button somehow before throwing the radio across the room. 

He bites his lip, restless. If something happened then Jim and the cops will probably be too preoccupied seeking justice to notice if he sneaks in and borrows a file. He leaves with a single minded purpose. 

 

_ “Oswald Cobblepot is among those missing, presumed dead.” The officer says. Ed misses all save the last two words. _

 

-

He arrives at the GCPD, it’s quiet, sombre. Something is really wrong. He slips into the records room unnoticed and flicks through the files until he finds what he’s looking for. 

Someone snatches the folder from his hand, he turns. A smile tugs at his lips. Foxy. 

“What do you want?” Ed asks, frustrated but curious. 

“Your expertise. Someone blew up a building we were using to house refugees.” Alarm bells ring in the back of Ed’s mind but he fervently ignores them. 

He agrees to help out of desperation and morbid curiosity and follows Lucius downstairs to the bullpen. 

Jim and Harvey are deep in conversation, both frowning tightly. Harvey shrugs, a grim smile tugs at the corner of his lips. Jim looks uncomfortable with whatever he just said. 

Harvey spots Ed as they approach and pulls out his gun, but Lucius steps between them. 

“You just can’t get a win around here huh? One lowlife bites the dust and another one rises from the ashes to take its place.” 

“Harvey cool it. He’s here to help.” Lucius says. 

“Why would a cop killer want to help cops?” Harvey spits. 

“I can only be given, not taken or bought-“

Harvey raises his gun, cutting him off. “I swear to god Nygma I will shoot you.” 

Jim places his hand over Harvey’s gun and pushes it down. 

Lucius raises an eyebrow at Ed, surprised. Ed’s cheeks begin to stain red, remembering there’s an audience that can and will solve his riddles. 

“Look, you don’t have to like it but you can’t deny that Mister Nygma has a particular skill set that could be very valuable to us in finding the Haven bomber.”

Jim looks at Ed, he knows Lucius is right but he doesn’t like it. He looks over at Harvey who sighs loudly. 

“Alright, but you’re on thin fucking ice Nygma. I’m watching you.” 

 

_ “They found Penguin a half hour ago. Maybe the silver lining to this whole mess is it finally got rid of that beaky nose bastard.” Harvey says. Ed doesn’t hear. _

 

-

Ed steps over the rubble, smoke still lingering in the air, making him cough. He feels sick to his stomach. He knows he needs to say something, but words fail as he tries to process the environment around him. It’s devastating. The weight of tragedy and loss is an oppressive weight almost as thick as the smoke. 

The bomb was the building. This was strategic, intricately planned, designed to cause the maximum amount of destruction. How could someone do this? 

“Ed?” Lucius says softly, bringing Ed back to the present. “What are you seeking forgiveness for?” Lucius asks. 

“What?”

“Your riddle.”

“Oh. Nothing. Everything. I don’t know yet.” Ed answers, mind still elsewhere. 

Lucius watched him intensely, curiously, sympathetically. Ed stops, turns to face Lucius. 

“I have done a lot of horrible things in my life that cannot be forgiven. I know that. But this- you can think what you want of me Foxy, but this is abhorrent. Even to a monster like me.”

“You’re not a monster, Ed.” 

Ed doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t need Lucius’s pity. They stare at each other, Lucius’s eyes are soft, knowing. Ed doesn’t understand, shifts uncomfortably. No ones looked at him with anything but hatred since- since Oswald. He pushes the thought away. 

-

As they are leaving the site, something catches his eye and he stops. He approaches it slowly, afraid of what he might find. He kneels down and moves a couple of charred bricks to grab the what caught his eye. A charred metal Penguin. From Oswald’s cane. Edward drops it like it burnt his hand which is now stained black. He can’t breathe, his chest too tight. His hands are shaking but he can’t feel them anymore. He rises to his feet, head spinning. 

“Oswald was here.” He says to no one in particular. 

Lucius approaches slowly, cautiously, the way one would a startled animal. 

“Why was he here?” He says louder. 

“He came to reclaim some of his staff who sought refuge in Haven. I’m sorry.” 

He can hear Lucius’s words but they don’t register. 

“Sorry? Sorry for what?” Ed tries to focus his vision but fails. 

“Your loss.” Lucius speaks the words with a softness beyond what he can comprehend. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. He can’t think. He doesn’t know. His vision is spotty now, his cheeks wet, why? Oh. He’s crying. 

“My loss? What are you saying Oswald isn’t- he’s not-“

He presses his fingers into his eyes in an attempt to stop his thought from spiralling or hide his face or stop the tears, he isn’t sure. He hears someone screaming, it’s heart wrenching and pained and broken. Oh, it’s himself. 

He feels a hand on his shoulder, the touch is light, hesitant. He looks towards the source, has to look up, it’s Lucius. Ed’s on the floor now. Sharp pieces of brick and glass dig into his knee but he’s numb to the pain.

“I know you two were close once-“

Ed reels back at that, in fear, in disgust, in pain. 

“No. We- I hate him, hated him. He’s not my friend.” 

Lucius looks at him like he did all that time in the car when he realised he was just trying to hold on to Oswald. Like that time Ed was asking him riddles and Lucius figured out that he killed Oswald. Why does Lucius always look at him like that? 

Ed has spent the majority of the past year and a half trying to destroy Oswald. Dedicating all of his energy into hating him and for what? For him to be taken from Ed before he had the chance to kill him himself? 

He thought the pain he felt when he shot Oswald was unbearable but this- this is the most agony he’s ever felt. The guilt, the regret, the anger. He can’t identify its source. He should have been the one to kill Oswald. No. That’s not why. He thinks about Oswald lying there, no pulse, no heartbeat, no breath. A wave of nausea hits him. The guilt, the regret, the anger is because he didn’t save Oswald. Because he wasn’t there with him. Because he doesn’t hate Oswald anymore. Because they’ve been through so much and he holds no grudge on Oswald. Because Ed was ready to die rather than give him up. Because he forgives Oswald. Because he loves Oswald and oh-

_ Oswald died without the knowledge that Ed loved him back. That Ed loved him first.  _

“Ed? Do you want to talk about it?” Lucius asks quietly. 

Ed clenches his jaw, squeezes his eyes shut, breathes heavily through his nose. “No. We have work to do. We have to find who did this and make them pay.” 

He grabs the charred Penguin head and pulls himself up until he’s standing. He looks at it, and rubs his thumb over it, removing some of the soot so that it begins to shine once more. He closes his fist around it, unable to look at it anymore, but still holds it tightly. 

He looks over at Lucius, who is looking at his hand as if he might break and Ed can’t stand it. 

“Let’s go.” He says, pointedly avoiding Lucius’s eye and looking around at the closest rooftops. His mind now stubbornly focusing on solving the mystery at hand. Because if not- well, it’s not worth considering. “That one- the vantage point and height offers an ideal trajectory as well as cover.”

“Alright.” 

Ed sets off towards the rooftop without another word. 

-

Ed looks out at the blackened walls, the shattered windows. He wonders where Oswald was. What he was doing when it happened. A wave of deja vu. Why does this feel familiar? He prods the thought but it leads nowhere good. Concentrate, Ed. Solve the problem. Compartmentalise.

“Impressive. Calculated angle of incident, followed the trajectory through the window into the fuel oil tanks.”

“Yeah. That and the RPG case is right over there.” Lucius says. 

Ed knows the RPG case is a cold lead, but he hopes Lucius finds something regardless. 

Lucius gives him the file, tells him he appreciates his help and couldn’t have done it without him. Ed smiles despite himself. Lucius leaves. Ed looks at the folder in his hands, it too feels pointless now. He’s right, inmate #1215 is dead. He throws the folder and yells. 

-

An old woman sits in the window across the block. Desperate for something to focus on lest thoughts of Oswald start creeping back, Ed heads over to her apartment. Apartment #1215. He swallows, knocks on the door. 

“You were on the roof. You had some kind of a rocket and you fired it at that building.”

“No. That’s not possible.” Ed stumbles over his words, the lump in his throat suffocating him. His voice breaks, he’s shaking. He can’t have killed all those innocent people. No version of himself would have a motivate to do that. He didn’t know a single person in Haven. Except that- he did. That would mean- he killed Oswald. 

A sharp blow to the back of his head knocks him to the floor. 

Oswald smiling brightly at him over a million different backgrounds: the GCPD, his old apartment, at Arkham Asylum, the Van Dahl manor, City Hall, the bird cages, the Iceberg Lounge, even that god forsaken pier. Before Oswald knew him, before he trusted him, before he loved him he looked at Ed like that. Like no one ever had, not Kristen, not Isabella, not Lee. He looked at him like he understand him and accepted him for who he was anyway- for all his flaws and all his faults and all his quirks. Ed shot Oswald, destroyed his empire, betrayed him, blamed him, mocked him and through it all Oswald still looked at him with affection, fondness. With love. With forgiveness. Oswald didn’t just love Ed despite his flaws, his faults and his quirks, but  _ because of  _ them. How could he have been so blind? 

And now it’s too late. What a cruel twist of fate that it takes losing Oswald again for him to finally confront his feelings. 

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Back in the present, the old woman still clutches he statue in her hand, raises it and whacks Ed across the head again.

Ed stood on the rooftop, RPG resting on his shoulder. He pulls the trigger, feels himself do it, but is no closer to understanding why. An eruption of fire, a noise so loud and horrifying Ed has to cover his ears. There’s movement in the square below, he hears screaming.

Somewhere Oswald is afraid, in pain, alone. Surrounded by fire and smoke. Did he die instantly? Or slowly? There’s no intimacy in it. It’s not right. Oswald shouldn’t have died like that. Oswald shouldn’t have died. 

A dark warehouse, a mangled red car. His hands around Oswalds neck, around his tie. Their faces close enough to share breath. A tear on Oswald’s cheek, he wants to wipe it away with his thumb, but he doesn’t. So many things he wants to say, but he can’t.  _ I loved you first but you broke my heart.  _

An overcast afternoon, it’s cold and it’s raining. Pathetic fallacy, some would say. Oswald stands begging, reaches out, Ed slaps his hands away. He has to do this. Why? He can’t think. He shoots Oswald but his hands reach for him one last time without thought or permission, caressing the fabric of his shirt. He holds tight before letting go with a gentle push. His tears mix with the rain as he watches Oswald sink deeper until he’s gone. 

Their feud feels so pointless now. He wishes he could go back, start over. Would he do it differently? 

Ed wakes up alone on the floor, half formed visions of Oswald fading fast. The sun shines brightly through the blinds and he has no memory of how he returned from Apartment #1215 or what happened to it’s resident. His head still hurts and his heart aches. There’s blood on his knuckles, it’s his own. He probably smashed a mirror. It’s inconsequential.

Then he remembers. Oswald is gone. He wishes he could forget. But he can’t and he doesn’t know how to move forward. Doesn’t think that he can. He just wants to touch Oswald one more time, he wants to hold him close, protect him from harm. Once he promised Oswald he would do anything for him. That he could always count on him. He meant it. Oswald saved his life literally and metaphorically more than once and all Ed ever did was try to kill him until he succeeded. By accident. 

He wanted the answers so desperately, but they broke him beyond repair. He can’t go back. He can’t fix this. He can’t apologise. He can’t reunite with Oswald. He can’t tell him he loves him. He’ll never see him smile, or laugh, or kill a man, or hear his voice, feel concern about his limp, what him charm his way through a room full of his enemies, standing by his side. That time is over. There’s nothing to be done. 

A dark apartment, bathed in a neon green light. Piano keys beneath his fingertips, playing a sad melody. Oswald shifts under the duvet, Ed knows he’s watching him, smiles to himself as he sings softly. A simpler time.

_ “I can bring tears to your eyes and resurrect the dead. I form in an instant but last a lifetime. What am I?” _

Memories. That’s all he has left. Oswald was right, they are like daggers in his heart.


End file.
